Mistress
by sein Henker
Summary: "Gwen was tense today, and Jack didn't mind her frustrations being taken out on him."


Title: Mistress  
Summary: "Gwen was tense today, and Jack didn't mind her frustrations being taken out on him."  
Rating: AO  
Word Count: 3,967  
Other Chapters: No.  
Disclaimer:The British Broadcasting Corporation owns Torchwood and all related characters, settings, and trademarks. I do not profit in any way from this material.  
Pairings: Gwen/Jack (explicit), Jack/Rhys (mentioned), Gwen/Rhys (mentioned), Gwen/Jack/Rhys (mentioned)  
Contains: consensual polygamy, bondage, sadomasochism, caning, dominance/submission, collars, stockings, cunnilingus, PIV sex  
Warnings: mentions of torture

* * *

Jack didn't think he was supposed to like the collar. He kind of did, though. He was lying on his own bed, naked as the day he was born except for a band of lace and pink flowers around his throat, and he couldn't take his eyes off his own reflection in his fully-body mirror. He wondered how the collar would look with a certain pair of stockings that Rhys had bought him last winter, but he'd be in too much trouble if he were caught wearing them tonight to actually find out. He'd been clearly instructed to wait with nothing on but the collar.

He'd worn collars before, but not like this. The Doctor liked metal pinch collars so he could pop the leash when Jack stepped out of line, and John liked smooth leather, maybe in red if John was in the mood for a change, but usually in black. This was something new, and soft, and sweet, and somehow domestic. It was the human version (It had definitely been made for submissives, not dogs.) of something you bought for a pretty little lapdog, not a mutt who slept in the dirt outside. The collar signified possession, but simultaneously indicated that a certain level of value was being assigned to the wearer by their owner. Gwen would never have collared Jack any other way.

Still, she'd put it on him because he was in trouble. It was meant to be a little bit humiliating and to put him in his place. Gently. He was supposed to be comfortable in it, but he wasn't supposed to like it. Gwen wouldn't have gotten it in pink if she'd really wanted Jack to like it. Jack was hungry and naked and waiting for Rhys to get Anwen out of the house so that Gwen could punish him. She wasn't trying to make him happy. She'd even sent him up here to wait without dinner, though he imagined that he'd be eating something soon enough.

She claimed she was angry about him "neglecting Anwen," but Jack knew better than that. Anwen would be fine. Gwen and Rhys had gone out last-night and Jack had stayed at home with Anwen, and after dinner he'd let her talk him into turning the Wii on and Jack had gotten rather competitive with her, lost track of time, and put her to bed a full ninety minutes later than he'd been instructed to. She was fine. From what Jack had seen of her today, she didn't even seem to particularly miss the sleep. Jack hadn't at all expected to be in trouble for it. He strongly suspected that he wouldn't have been, normally, but Gwen was tense today, and Jack didn't mind her frustrations being taken out on him. She would have found something anyway. She'd had the collar in her pocket, ready to clip it on him and send him to his room at any time. That meant she'd been eager, and if she'd been eager, then she'd been looking for a reason, and Jack could probably count himself lucky that he'd made it as long as he had without giving her one. She was better than most irritable Doms at waiting for a good reason. He wished that Anwen had waited until after Jack's stomach was full to let the secret out and provide her mother with the necessary petty excuse, but it was fine, really. He knew Gwen well, and after she'd given him a good beating and calmed down a bit, she'd let him heat something up. His merciful Mistress wouldn't torture him forever.

There was a knock at the door and Jack's heart fluttered, but he'd barely sat up when Rhys' voice stopped him: "Give it five minutes, and then go to her."

Jack glanced at the clock on his wall. It was 6:08 and thirty-seven seconds, and five more minutes of waiting sounded unbearable. He'd almost lost track of time while she was eating dinner, but now he had to count the seconds, and that was torture. She couldn't possibly notice if he rounded down and left at 6:13 on the minute, could she?

"Thanks," Jack said in what he hoped was a level tone of voice, but if he hadn't quite managed then Rhys wouldn't think anything of it. Rhys knew what was waiting for Jack. Jack hadn't moved into their house as a friend, despite what they'd told Gwen's mother and Rhys' parents, and Rhys indulged himself with Jack as often as Gwen did, and sometimes with Gwen. Jack loved Rhys. He loved Gwen. He wasn't entirely certain he loved them both in the same way or in the way that they loved each other, but it didn't seem to matter very much to any of them.

... 6:09. Would she notice if he trimmed thirty seconds off the wait? It took, what, five seconds to cross the hallway from his room to hers? If she'd been in her bedroom when she sent Rhys after Jack and she'd looked at the clock as soon as she'd sent Rhys, that bought Jack ten seconds. Would she have looked at the clock? If she hadn't looked, if this was just a basic cautionary measure to make sure that Rhys and Anwen were out of the house before Jack and Gwen started running around naked and no one much cared about the specifics, then he would obviously be alright. Her sense of time was not that acute, and she wouldn't care, even if it was. If she had looked at the clock, it was because she was still looking for reasons to escalate the punishment. She would definitely notice, then, and he would pay for it dearly.

... The hallway was completely silent. Rhys and Anwen must have been gone already.

Maybe the price was worth paying. There wasn't a standard punishment for not getting the kid to bed on time, so Jack was probably going to be beaten with the exact severity that it took to relieve Gwen's stress, regardless of how he compounded the trouble he was in. She would maybeyell at him and slap him when she otherwise wouldn't have, to punish him for being early. It wouldn't be awful. Unless she just made a note of it and punished him for it after she was calm...

Five minutes. That was, what, 1/200,000,000th of Jack's life so far? It shouldn't be this difficult. He was too fucking old to still get butterflies in his stomach just because a pretty girl wanted to shove him onto the bed and whip him until he cried. Fuck, he loved this. He hated this. He always had, and the immortality had made it so much worse. As long as his Mistress was fast, things could get excruciating. Jack liked that. That moment when he thought he couldn't possibly take any more... he lived for that moment. He felt alive in that moment. He didn't care what petty excuses she came up with for doing so; Jack loved it when Gwen punished him.

...It was so quiet in the house that Jack could hear the grass growing outside. Almost. Rhys and Anwen were gone, anyway. Outside, in the car, down the street, and halfway to the cinema by now. Jack was sure of it. They had to be.

When he couldn't take it any longer, he looked at his reflection in the mirror one more time, touched the collar and smiled, then opened his door and half-skipped across the hall and into Gwen's bedroom. Her door was already open, but she couldn't have seen him coming from her position. She was on the edge of her bed, naked with her legs spread, and as soon as he entered, she crossed her arms and glared at him. He saw her steal a glance at the clock on her wall and he barely stopped himself from flinching. He'd been caught...

But there was no helping it now. The best he could do for himself was to go directly to her and fall to his knees between her legs, then wait patiently and silently for permission to begin.

She pushed his head into her crutch and squeezed his hair before withdrawing her hand. "If you want to try to earn yourself an easier punishment, get on with it."

Without a word, Jack pulled back just enough to get his bearings and fix his angle, and then he put his mouth to his Mistress' cunt and ran his tongue over her clit in a long, slow swipe. He laid his hands flat on the floor and then knelt down on them, because even though it was uncomfortable, it was much better than what would happen if he thoughtlessly put his hands on her without permission. He had implied permission to use his mouth on her, for now, and that was all he really needed anyway. Quickening the flicks of his tongue over her clit almost instantly thawed her mood, even as her body tensed slightly. She uncrossed her arms and broadened her shoulders, and his very best efforts to please her were soon rewarded with small moans and—he knew he was winning her over, when it got this far—her grasping at his hair again, this time painlessly.

She tasted bitter and salty and smelled much the same, and he loved everything about that and didn't worry in the slightest about getting her fluids all over his chin or on any other part of his face. She'd probably like it, and in any case a bit of a mess would help her remember how verygood he could be and usually was, if she found herself inclined to forget that while she beat him.

Thoughts of his upcoming beating made his stomach do an odd little flip, and he wasn't sure if the feeling was fear of something he desired or desire for something he feared. The line between the two was blurry and the difference might have been entirely semantic, especially in a relationship like this. The thought of his beating was encouraging. It was nice extra motivation—not that he'd needed any—to do his very best to please his Mistress and to lean into the discomfort and the dark pleasure that the sense of being owned and controlled gave him.

He moved his head slightly, just to feel his hair move in her hand for that brief moment before she caught up with him. It wasn't painful, and it wasn't meant to be. It was just a brief tactile sensation, a brief reassurance of the contact. Then he went right back to running his tongue over her cunt, sometimes slowly and sometimes quickly, taking almost as much pleasure as she did in every involuntary twitch of her leg muscles and every deliberate moan that she reassured him with. When she finally actually said "Good boy!" and caressed his hair with her thumb, he couldn't help but smile.

He was as aware of the tremors pulsing through her body as she was, and he held his mouth to her as she came, sucking up all he could of her juices and basking in her whispered praises as a soft but steady stream of "Good boy, oh my good boy..."s left her mouth until her orgasm died.

He wasn't really surprised, though, when the hand in his hair tightened again as soon as she was satisfied. She squeezed hard and twisted his hair tightly, and he buried his pained cry in a sharp breath. Then she let go, hopped off the bed, and snapped and pointed at the spot she'd just vacated. He knew what she wanted without a verbal command, and he stood up quickly and draped himself over the bed gracefully, with his left thigh over the wet spot Gwen left on the sheets and his toes just a few inches from the ground. He buried his head in the blankets and sighed, trying to get comfortable, then stroked the back of his collar with his fingers.

Gwen was behind him. She opened the drawer and started fishing around for the birch rod—He knew he was getting the birch, tonight—and he bit down his pathetic whimpering and tried to embrace his rising sense of terror. He wiggled his toes and squirmed, because he could get away with it as long as she was otherwise occupied, and it almost satisfied his urge to run.

He'd regret it so much if he ran, though.

It was odd, because he'd been tortured—literally tortured, with sharp knives and two-thousand years of dirt in his lungs and touches like lightning strikes from unfamiliar instruments—and he'd never broken, never even lost his cheerfulness during that long year on The Valiant, yet somehow his best friend looking for a thin strip of wood sent all his nerve out the window. It was different, though. Gwen could beat him bloody and call him a bad boy and he'd take it gladly because he deserved it and she had every right to administer the punishment. She made him feel owned and controlled and alive. She helped him atone for lifetimes of twisted shit, and he fucking loved her for it. None of the people who'd literally tortured him had had the right.

He felt the cane tap him gently on the most tender part of his ass, and he went immediately still. He took a slow, deep breath, and without looking at her, he whispered: "I'm sorry."

She scoffed. "No, you're not."

He heard the cane cut through the air half a second before he felt it biting into his skin. He choked on the sting and felt his body go tense against his own better judgment. The sting barely had time to fade into an uneven (the rod wasn't smooth) flame before the second blow fell, and already he was breathless and halfway to begging. The blows fell with all her strength and as quickly as she could rain them down. They had to. Jack's body healed itself from all injuries, which could be a bit of a problem in heavy pain-play, but Jack had discovered a long time ago that his body knew better than to heal itself before the trauma had stopped. (He wasn't sure if it had always been this way or if his immortality was evolving. He didn't like to think about it.) It had been useful in plenty of non-consensual situations as well as consensual ones. As long as she kept striking him quickly, he wouldn't recover. A couple of seconds would have been enough time to ruin all of her hard work, but she wasn't that merciful normally and she certainly wasn't tonight.

It was the ninth blow that finally got some noise out of him, unless he'd lost count somewhere. He was bitter about that, because he usually tried not to lose his cool until at least the tenth, and he'd been so close. It had overlapped another blow in just the wrong way, though, and it had been utter agony he hadn't been even slightly prepared for, and he hadn't been able to stop his scream. He'd kept his teeth clenched so it came out half as a grunt, but that was the best he could manage. It hadn't been worth the effort to hold in and it couldn't possibly have been satisfying to his Mistress, but he didn't really cry to satisfy her.

Jack had a high pain tolerance. You tend to, after a few centuries of torture. His ass was a mixture of fire and hand-fulls of needles, though, and when the fifteenth blow fell he let out a sob that Anwen would have judged him for, and after that they just kept coming. Some blows weregentler than others, either because his Mistress didn't bring them down as hard or because they landed on a marginally less-abused area, but everything hurt and he was beyond pretending otherwise.

By the thirtieth blow, he was crying, sobbing grossly into the comforter and soaking it in tears. He was saying something, and if it was coherent at all, it was probably pleas for her to stop. He doubted that it was coherent at all. He was sure he must have bleeding, and all of his functioning mental faculties had gone toward making that deduction. She would never listen to his pleas anyway. She showed mercy when she wanted to. Jack couldn't win her over with tears.

She didn't scold him during the punishment. She often did, but the excuse for this caning was so flimsy that they both knew that scolding would be more detrimental than cathartic. She did call him a bad boy a few times, because he was, far more so than she really understood. He rather liked it when she called him a bad boy, not because he enjoyed his shameful past but because he took a great deal of comfort in the reminder that he now had much better men and women holding his leash, guiding him and punishing him every time he stepped out of line. They ensured his future as a good boy, and that was what really mattered. He was a very bad boy, but the fact that there was someone there to say that now made all the difference in the world.

The blows didn't quite stop, at first. They lessened in severity, into firm taps that wouldn't have hurt at all if the skin they were tapping weren't already abused. It was just enough to stop Jack's body from healing itself without being enough to really inflict further damage. Jack's lips stopped moving in pathetic entreaties for mercy they both knew he didn't deserve. Jack got his sobbing under control, with considerably more effort, and then he listened. Gwen was panting too, excited and exhausted and undoubtedly aroused enough to move on.

"Tell me you're sorry," Gwen said breathlessly.

Jack's cock reacted faster than Jack's mouth did, and now that the pain was manageable and it knew what was coming next, it did its best to be ready. "I'm sorry," Jack said, only now realizing how hoarse his voice was.

She lifted the birch rod far away from his skin and ran her hand painlessly through his hair. A single pet with no verbal reassurance. He'd take it.

She turned away from him and left him to heal. She never soaked the rods (which was why they went through so many of them, but pointing that out to her usually just got Jack hit with their current one, which was as counter-productive as it was painful) so it was probably just going to go back into the drawer until the next time she wanted to use it. While she was putting it away, he felt his skin mend itself, slowly and painfully. He knew she'd broken skin because broken skin stung as it stitched itself back together, while bruises healed with more of a dull ache. He dried his tears and calmed himself. In less than a minute, Gwen's hard work had vanished, and Jack left stretched out on her bed, tired but comfortable and ready for the really fun part.

Her nails ran over the skin of his back when she returned to him, mostly painlessly and certainly without breaking skin, and he arched up into it a bit and sighed when the nails turned to soft fingertips that stroked over his back gently. "Up," she said. "On your back, head on the pillow."

Jack crawled upwards and flipped himself over, ungracefully but quickly. She spread his legs slightly wider and smoothly rolled a condom onto his erect cock, then crawled on top of him. She straddled him and stared down at him in the dim light that came in from the hallway.

"Mistress—" he said.

"Shhhh." She put a finger to his lips. "Not a word from you right now. Just relax and be good."

Jack nodded.

She lifted her finger from his lips and brought it down to re-center the design on his collar, then smiled at him. "Do you like it?" she asked, running her fingers over it.

Jack nodded, holding her eyes as well as he could in the darkness.

She brought her lips to his and kissed him almost innocently. "Might have you wear it regularly," she said. "Just at home. Not out in public."

Jack nodded again, and hoped he didn't look too eager.

She grinned. She leaned in, pressed her naked breasts against his bare chest, and slipped her tongue into his mouth. Slowly and tenderly, she reasserted her claim over his mouth and all the rest of him, and he stayed submissive and polite, not even moaning until she coaxed him into doing so with moans of her own. She then gently grabbed both of his wrists, lifted them over his head, and tied them to the headboard with ties he hadn't realized were there. He remembered his orders not to speak, and stayed calm and quiet while she tied him. When she finished and looked down at him again, he forced a smile up at her, but she didn't return it this time.

She backed up slightly and brought herself down on his cock, and started to play with his nipples as she rode him slowly. Pleasure washed from his cock through the rest of his body, but her nails on some of his most sensitive pieces of skin mingled the pleasure with pain just enough to keep him firmly grounded. His mind was as tied to the bed as his body was.

He let out a whimper that somehow turned into a moan, and his Mistress shushed him.

"Quiet," she said gently. "Just be quiet."

So he bit back his moans, his whimpers, and of course his pleas and let them all out as slow, restrained exhales or sharp gasps that she couldn't really fault him for, and she grunted as she sped up her thrusts. Her nails sped up to, scratching at his naked chest faster and harder than they had been before, and in the dim light he could see her smiling as he writhed beneath her, utterly at her mercy and damn thrilled to be there.

She cried out as she came around him, and he nearly took courage in that and tried to get away with a soft moan of his own, but he noticed her eyes still fixed on him and thought better of it. He voiced his own release with a staggered breath and a squirm, and went limp and enjoyed the feeling of his Mistress going limp on top of him and holding him. They stayed like that for a minute, then she dropped a kiss on his shoulder and stood up. He waited for her to untie his wrists, but instead she simply pulled the condom off him, dropped it in the nearest trashcan, and pulled a robe on.

"There's a baby monitor on the dresser," Gwen said. "Safeword if you need to. I'll hear you."

Jack's jaw dropped. "Gwen—"

"No, Jack, you can stay tied right where you are for thirty minutes, and maybe that'll put those five that you just couldn't wait into perspective."

Jack hesitated. It was fair. It was completely fair, and he had to grant her that. He'd known the risk he was taking, and he'd decided that it would be worth it. He'd made his bed, now he could literally lie in it.

He sighed. "Sorry, Mistress."

Gwen shook her head. "Safeword or shut it." She headed out the door. "And don't fall asleep! You will be in trouble if you're asleep when I get back! If you're still awake, we'll talk about releasing you..."

She closed the door.


End file.
